Ersatz Liaison
by layersofsarkney
Summary: A furtive relationship between enemies is slowly devastated by the disappearance of Vaughn. Sarkney fic, R for S&L. Final chapter uploaded.
1. Attainment

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

Ersatz Liaison

Chapter 1________ Attainment

_Man, it takes a silly girl_

_To lie about the dreams she has._

_But Lord, it takes a lonely one to wish_

_That she had never dreamt at all._

-Dashboard Confessional,

Carve Your Heart Out Yourself__

____________________xxx

            She can only vaguely recall the truculent being that overtakes her mentality upon hearing the desperate cries of the one woman that she would have least expected to call. 

            Lauren Reed's shrill cries for help test Sydney's patience. Her abilities at one in the morning do not include translation of strident feminine bawling, but she only needs to understand two words to ascertain the purpose of the call.

            "Michael… dead—"

            The phone receiver falls several feet shy of the cradle, but Sydney's already struggling into her slacks as she stumbles towards the room door. The thick threads of the lush magenta carpet smother her fading footsteps.

            It doesn't take long to locate the apartment building which houses the infamous _Vaughns, _the surname she would have acquired if not for an unexpected two year sabbatical. She hears the sirens several blocks away and sees the spinning lights as she nears. The beams blind her with an eerie feeling of nostalgia. Sydney recounts the few earth-shattering seconds when the glint of the engagement ring on his finger first made itself apparent. 

            _He observed her with a somber expression, blue eyes expressing a forbidden secret that part of her already knew, but was yet to acknowledge. Moving his hand to his face, he placed the illicit conversation topic in a vulnerable position. The wedding band on his finger glimmered in the dim light and Sydney hastily swallowed a breath of air._

            Sydney steps out of the Land Cruiser, displaying her CIA identification as her Holy Grail. She brushes past the agents and medics, the small flutter of hope she's nurturing in her breast slowly simmering down to a meager helping of faith. 

            Remorse hits her with the force of a speeding truck when she enters their apartment. Spatters of blood are tossed around the carpet haphazardly, on the white settees and the thick curtains. It is a spasmodic trail of Michael's ambling stagger after he feels the full blow of the shots. She follows the path with her eyes. 

He was hit the first time, standing… _there._ He grabbed his chest and was shot again… _there_…

She maintains her reserved expression, even as Dixon walks out of the bedroom in his confident stride, holding a pair of bloodied medical latex gloves. His eyes widen when he sees her and for a brief moment, they both know that Dixon doest not have an explanation for the massacre's remnants. Nor does he have the consolation that she requires. 

"Sydney…" Weiss softly says from behind her. She immediately pivots, glances down at his blood stained jacket. "How—who called you?"

She hesitates, her lips part, and she feigns an expression of misunderstanding while the gears in her head spin feverishly.

"Where's Michael?" she persists, dodging his question. Weiss seems more taken aback by her presence than her lack of words. 

"Syd—I think you should sit down for this," Weiss says, setting his hand down on her shoulder. His eyes remind her of a doe caught in headlights, a tad ironic considering the positions that they'e both in. Sydney shakes her head.

"Don't tell me to sit down. Just tell me where he is," she sternly demands. Dixon's looming figure appears alongside her, but Sydney can't will herself to find comfort in his suddenly unfamiliar gaze. The two agents look uneasily at one another and then at Sydney. 

"Where—is—he?" she reiterates, annunciating each syllable carefully. The aggravating silence between them is enough of a forewarning of the inclement troubles to come. 

"Sydney, his lungs were both punctured—the medics… they say it doesn't look good," Weiss says.

The distraught agent has suffered through so many traumatic deaths, explosions and fatalities that denial is no longer a state of being for her. Sydney can only stand crookedly as one leg loses strength and shudders beneath her. Weiss leans forward and clutches her shoulders, edges her towards the soiled kitchen counter. Sydney shakes off her aid's touch with a bitter glare and corrects her stature.

"Where's Lauren?"

"She went with Michael to the hospital," Dixon replies. "She mentioned something about staying with a friend for the evening. We have her cell phone number if you—"

A cell phone ring shatters the tense moment. 

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

The tensions rise as the sharp ring continues. Dixon can no longer hide its existence and digs into his jacket's deep pocket, manages to find the mobile among the clutter of small knick-knacks and gum wrappers. He flips the phone open and places the receiver to his ear. Weiss is hesitant to continue discussing the terms of Michael's condition as well as the mental stability of Lauren. 

"What? How?" Dixon snarls. "Damn it, what happened to the escort?"

Sydney holds her breath as Dixon continues to argue with the speaker at the other end of the line. 

"Well, keep searching the ambulance. I'll be down there in a few minutes."

Both agents look towards their advisor, question beaming from their eyes. Sydney already senses the early beginnings of a mystery and swallows the knot in her throat. 

"They've lost sight of the ambulance," is all Dixon says as he casts his gaze downwards and purposely avoids eye contact. He tucks his cell phone back into his pocket and briskly walks off, leaving Weiss to take charge of the investigation at the apartment. Sydney watches him leave, sheltering her bemusement beneath a veil of professional sophistication. 

"Sydney—how did you find out about this—we didn't want to alert any agents until tomorrow's debriefing," Weiss says, eagerly tip-toeing around the taboo topic of the ambulance's sudden disappearance. Sydney sighs and prepares to leave, having fulfilled her curiosity for the evening.

"There's only one reason why you'd leave your apartment at one in the morning, Weiss," Sydney says with a shake of her head. She swallows the fib and leaves Weiss to wade in his puddle of profanities.

Sydney springs up to the sound of tires rolling to a stop on the parking lot pavement outside. The only sound that breaks the dawn's silence. She pushes herself off the white couch and creeps towards the window, pulling back the pearl colored drapes. A bleak Weiss stumbles out of the drivers seat, the dark expression that he wears enough to tell Sydney how the rest of the investigation went. 

The phone's sharp ring shatters her concentration and Sydney bolts to snatch the receiver off the cradle. 

"Hello?" she asks hesitantly, the small delusional glimmer in her chest bursting aflame. She holds her breath until she hears his familiar voice, the gentle soothing tone that put her to sleep years ago. 

"Glad to see you're finally awake," the caller responds.

The light dies and Sydney burrows her teeth into her lip to keep from screaming out a trail of vulgar words. Strict, professional tone, foreign accent, no, it wasn't him. Why wasn't Vaughn on the other end of the line, full of reassuring answers and calming solutions to all her problems? Then she remembers the wedding band that had forged the large canyon in their relationship and accepts defeat. With somber eyes, she watches the chasm between them grow larger.

"What do you want?" she spits out, carrying the phone with her towards her bedroom. Her footsteps fall down hard on the thin white carpet. She pulls back the curtains covering her balcony doors and spots his infamous black Mercedes parked at the curb beyond the lot. Illegally. As usual.

He is leaning against the passenger's side, glancing idly down the deserted street, at four in the morning. Black fisher's coat with the tilted wide brim collar that fans out at the nape, then swoops back in around the collarbone. Whenever he wears it, Sydney thinks of him as the capable captain of his own steam liner—careful, gracious and skilled. 

            "So your boy scout has gone missing."

            Sydney sucks in a deep breath of air, thinking she can drown out the pain but inhale the musty odor of deceit all at once. 

            "And you had something to do with it, you son of a bitch."

            Her voice is so mellow and uncaring that the brief profanity seems as harmless and as simple as a 'hello'. She glances towards his car again and realizes he's absent from the scene. She can hear his soft breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. He's moving closer.

            "Julian—Julian!" she hollers into the phone. 

            "…up and dial again…"

            She steps away from the window, throws the phone onto the bed, and pulls open the nightstand drawer. The revolver feels heavy and slow in her hands, but it's the only firearm she has in her apartment. She places her thumb on the cylinder release latch, her eyes on her wristwatch, and dropps the empty casings in the ejector into her waste bin. She glances in her nightstand drawer. No more cartridges. She'll let him have fun trying to call her bluff.

            Sydney carries the revolver in the waistband of her skirt and waits for any signs of forced entrance.

            She slowly moves towards her front door, alerted by the sound of approaching footsteps. They slow as they reach her apartment, then finally cease. The knock on the door sends her scrabbling for the knob. She holds the gun forward, then throws the door open.

            "Whoa, Syd, calm down."

            It's Weiss, dazed and more alert, but nonetheless, Weiss. Sydney lowers the revolver and sighs with relief.

            "Sorry, Eric, I've just been a little worried lately—what, with Mike disappearing…"

            He nods his understanding and Sydney steps outside, tucking the revolver back beneath her waistband. 

            "I'd invite you in to talk, but you look like you need some rest," she says, patting his shoulder amicably. Weiss nods, breathes in, and remains standing like an orphaned child in the middle of the hall.

            "Eric—it's been tough day for all of us. Go get some sleep—now," Sydney commands, her voice heightening with authority. The sturdy man finally gives in to the weights on his eyelids and nods his appreciation. Sydney turns around and walks back into her apartment before he can even unlock his door. 

            She's pushed up against her door as soon as she reenters her dwelling. She's anticipating the perfect moment to attack the intruder but the soft scent of wood and vanilla tempts her to stay calm. It's _his_ scent and it's _her_ scent from time to time too, whenever she climbs out of the bed she knows isn't hers but feels no guilt for lying in. But she has her boundaries.

Where once was fire pounding in her veins whenever he dragged his lips across her neck is now ice. He senses the difference too, the lack of movement, the sudden disapproval. She watches him pull back, his blue eyes always sure of themselves, his hands readily placed on his hips. 

"Something the matter?" he asks in his silky smooth voice, pronouncing his 'r's so that they barely exist at all. 

"What the hell are you doing here, you two faced, lying bastard?" she asks in response, her voice low and harsh. He over exaggerates a gasp of pain and smirks in his devilish fashion, revealing the boyish dimple at the corner of his lip.

"I believe that I'm trying to seduce you but you're making it terribly difficult," he says, dragging his index finger in circles along her hip.

"You just don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?" Sydney nearly yells. She slaps away his hand and pushes away from him, but he persists and hunts her across the living room. 

"Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about," she hisses when she realizes he has her cornered. 

"I'm afraid I'm a little clueless right now, but feel free to fill me in after we're done."

Sydney keeps her temper in check and tightens the fists at her side as he continues to prowl about before her like a wild cat before it jumps its prey. He stops and takes a step towards her, tilting his head to scrutinize some part of her outfit. She's too slow to stop him from lunging forward and snatching the revolver from her waist. 

            "Lovely little contraption—were you planning to use it?"

            "Yes—to blow your balls out your mouth but it seems a little too late for that now," she murmurs, folding her arms across her chest.

            "It's not even loaded," he scoffs. Sydney shrugs and watches his expression grow humorless. He runs his thumb along the inner loop of the trigger, marking it as his and erasing any signs that Sydney had once tucked that very revolver into her holster. 

            "No shit, Sherlock," she sneers and walks around him, can't stop herself from brushing up against his shoulder and grazing his sleeve with her hands. His clothes are always impeccable, fit, soft and comfortable to the touch. 

            She wants to ask him what he's here for, but she already knows why. She would have wanted the same thing less than twelve hours ago, but now she only wants a cup of coffee to keep her awake until the debriefing. 

            "So, care to tell me why Lauren Reed called your apartment at one in the morning?" she asks, avoiding his gaze. He walks over to the counter, sets the revolver down in front of her steepled fingers, and takes the stool beside her.

            "No, actually, I don't care to tell you about that," he says bluntly, dropping his elbows onto the counter. He looks over at her, runs a hand over his shaved scalp, enjoying the touch of the rough stubble beneath his calloused palms. 

            "Then get out."

            She places her palms against the counter's edge and eases herself off the stool. The conversation has gone too far and his inability to be helpful irks her beyond reason. She drags her fingers off the counter, her fuming expression warning the intruder to take heed. He trails his hand behind hers and before she can leave, his hand reaches out and fastens onto her wrist. She stumbles over her footing, crosses her ankles, tumbles backwards and feels her lifeline pulling her out of the water.

            He's caught her, stopped her from falling again, and she despises it. As his hand works it's way under her blouse and before she gives in, her fingers brush against the firearm resting on the kitchen counter like a bright red flag against a blanket of black. His palms are moving up her abdomen—the gun shivers in Sydney's grasp. Before he can inhale her smell and nip the flesh at the base of her neck, she rotates in his arms and brings the revolver across his face. His head jerks to the side, the force of the gun not enough to shatter his jaw but enough break the skin. 

            He's stunned, his hand nurturing the bruised face. Sydney places the revolver back on the kitchen counter, tucks it beneath a stray pile of letters and papers, then looks at him with faux innocent eyes, as if the guilt she carries is nonexistent.

            "You're bleeding," she reminds him, reaching out to wipe some of the trail of red off his cheek. He grabs her hand before she can pull away, flicks his tongue across the pad of her finger, tastes the coppery flavor of his own blood. Sydney flinches. 

            _The sound of her pounding footsteps resonated through the empty avenue. _

_The French countryside, as breathtaking as the panorama was, provided difficulty for Sydney's escape. The cobblestone roads were rutted and her heels threatened to fracture beneath her as she darted crookedly back and forth. She spotted her oasis, a small coven between a bakery and a butcher's. With her fingers wrapped tightly around the semi-automatic, she hid, waiting, watching._

_            Footsteps approached and the sound of slowed breathing brought her senses back to life. The large moon cast his shadow across the road, giving her enough of a description to identify him.       _

_"Miss Bristow, do we really have to keep playing this game of cat and mouse? It gets rather redundant after a while," her follower called out. Sydney placed her gun before her, weaver position, and waited for him to turn the corner. Her eyes failed to notice his shadow as it receded, burrowing back into the folds of a plot. _

_She finally grew restless, stepped out from her alcove, and realized her target had vanished. With the gun before her, she took several confident steps towards the way in which she'd ran from, saw nothing. No shadows laced with the overhead clouds. She flinched, felt the slight breeze, and pivoted too late._

_Cold steel brushed against the back of her neck, in between the strands of the tacky blonde wig on her head. She felt his body brush up against her back, unneeded physical contact that should've set her off like a ticking bomb but didn't._

_"I have to say, this is a slight disappointment. I was under the impression that our last fight would have been a little more exciting," he said icily._

_            She scoffed and felt him press his gun harder into her nape, biting into the flesh. His head appeared beside hers, inhaling the scent of her dress, the smell of the hair beneath the wig, the touch of perfume she'd spritzed on for added authenticity. It unnerved her, brought both of their guards down, touched some part of her that hadn't been reached in years._

_            She broke out of the trance and snapped her elbow back, colliding with the gun and knocking it out of his hand and onto the cobblestones. Before she could turn her own firearm on him, his body brought hers to the ground, her bones and muscles screaming as they crashed onto the solid pavement below her. She scraped her elbow along the road, grazed her leg, cut her brow, but still had the adrenaline and energy to receive her attacker with a backhand. _

_            He quickly turned his face back towards her, a blotch of red forming on his cheek. He snatched the gun from her hand and threw it into the empty street alongside his. Her body quaked as he pinned her down, stroked the area of flesh between her shirt and waistband, dragged his tongue across her neck. _

_            Then his mouth was on top of hers, pleading for a response, massaging them until she sufficed and daunted his tongue with hers. His hard breathing mixed with hers and soon they'd forgotten that they had fallen into a muddled stupor in the middle of the night on a deserted road. She bit his lip and drew blood when she felt the stirrings of his reaction below, gasped when the taste of metal dripped along her lips and onto her tongue. _

_            He pulled away, realized the blood had no intention of ceasing, and bent forward, drops of it plunging into her mouth. She swallowed, hated the taste of it but couldn't get enough, and writhed beneath him in response. Her actions felt crude and she was unaccustomed to the rocky bed beneath her, but it was the passion between them that sparked her attention. He brought his mouth down on hers again, gently drew his tongue's tip across her bottom lip, tasted his own blood and lost control._

_            She felt him fidgeting to pull her pants down, then realized the circumstances of their environment and pulled his hands away._

_            "This is ridiculous," she suddenly whispered, watching him roll off in realization of their erratic decision. He quickly stood up, held a hand out for her, pulled it back when she slapped it away. She forced her legs to work and finally moved her body into an upright position._

_            "You've got a little bit of blood on your lip," he mentioned, patting his own in reference to hers. Quite ironic._

_            She ran her tongue across, cleaned the spill, and watched him yearn for her scent again. He turned to grab the guns from the pavement, a stupid move on his part. By the time he turned back around, she'd disappeared. _

She feels his eyes digging into her, drops her hand and lets the heat between them register. Her undeniable streak of stubbornness refuses to give in and she finds herself turning away again.

            "Sydney—," he says, earning her attention for the time being.

            "I need to find Michael," she snarls in response. 

            "Come on, Sydney! He left you three years ago! He didn't care, Sydney, he went for the next _thing_ he could find capable of wearing a skirt!" he yells. He can't understand her love for this man, but he envies it, envies it until it bleeds.

            "Shut up!" she roars back, spinning around on her heel. "Like you're any better! You're a god damn puppy looking for any master willing to give you a pat on the head for a job well done!"

            She's struck a nerve and she can tell by the way his tacky smile drops back to its crooked sneer. 

            "That's ironic, coming from the woman who'll do anything to get what she wants. If you'll recall, your trashy stage performance in France which I had the luck of being at—and apart of. Like I told you're father, you've got a lovely singing voice," he snaps back. She's speechless, realizes both of them are alike, and hates it so much that she can't stop thinking about it.

            Suddenly, she's thrown herself onto him, arms latched around his neck. The sexual tension is boiling out of its cup and Sydney isn't willing to hold it anymore. They bump foreheads as he hurriedly rushes to claim her once more. Strands of hair curtain both of their faces as she leans forward, her nose nestled alongside his. Masculine lips ravage hers, bruise them, make them warm and cold at the same time. He pull her hips towards him, considers the kitchen counter, selects a more comfortable setting, and takes her hand to lead her towards her bedroom. The bedroom that smells of wood and vanilla from time to time.

            They struggle to undress each other, their ensembles suddenly unimportant. His Armani suit is worth nothing as her hands claw them off, wrinkling and ripping them. He welcomes it, helps her, even. Her palms run across his defined abdomen in her haste to unbuckle his belt, his tie, shirt, jacket and coat lying around them like empty corpses. He fidgets with her slacks, pulls the zipper down, lets the piece of clothing pool around her feet, another defeated obstacle. The belt finally surrenders and she easily pulls it from the belt loops, throwing it to her bedroom floor to join it's matching accessories. He steps out of his pants, lets them drop down, a pair of boxers separating Sydney from his arousal. Before she can pull them down, one hand is on the curve in her back, pulling her towards him, the other placed on the band of her panties. And at the same time, both fragments of clothing are wrenched off. She wraps her hand around him, strokes, tempts him with her coven, then pushes him onto her bed.

            She's on top of him for seconds before he places her beneath him, his body taut and sturdy atop her. She clutches onto his back with her nails, his masochist side groaning with bliss. She admires the distinct lines of his muscles, traces them with her eyes, compliments them secretly. He kisses her, sighs with contained passion, feels her thigh brush against his companion. His fingers lead a beeline across her stomach towards her lower lips and suddenly they've broken past, testing, swirling. She squirms, then moans and he covers her mouth with his own. While his eyes keep her distracted, he plunges his shaft into her, earning himself a brief cry of pleasure. Slow thrusts that gather speed to the rhythm of their names called out louder and louder. She clings to his back, licks away the blood on his cheek, leaves her impression on his skin. His blue eyes are all she needs to convince her that there is no guilt associated with their unity. He's just as innocent and naïve at her, clueless of a missing two years of his life. Her back arches as she reaches her climax, her body experiencing a moment of nirvana, lips forming his name and nearly screaming it when she reaches her pinnacle. He buries his face into her neck as she softens and calms, lets him reach his peak and collapse beside her. He remains inside her, lets her rest her cheek against his chest, doesn't feel deserted any more. 

            "You know, a woman's never called me that, before."

            "What? Julian?"

            "No. Michael."

            She stiffens, regrets her mistake, and glances up towards him. His eyes are looking over her head, deep in thought, too late for her to say sorry.

Author's Note: Yay, my first Sarkney fanfic begins. Comment, review, read, spread the word, be a fan? I'm going to try and make this a short fanfic, 5 chapters tops—just because its angst and I'd really like to write something _not_ sad. Hopefully, it's not too confusing. The little random bits of details will make sense later, if not now. Keep reading, hope you enjoy, and thanks. 


	2. the Verdict

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

Ersatz Liaison

Chapter 2________ the Verdict

_Cause' I'm a train wreck waiting to happen, __  
Waiting for someone to come pick me up off the tracks,  
A wild fire born of frustration.  
Born of the one love that gets me so high,  
I've no fear at all._

-Sarah McLachlan

Trainwreck

_______________xxx

The coarse alleyway splits before her, the fork at the corner of the angular apartment building dauntingly chanting coaxing remarks. To the left, a target dexterously avoids spilt waste bags, dodging the light and welcoming the shadows. His footfalls are barely audible, like the sound of rainfall, already vanishing before she can identify him. To the right, another objective speedily ascends the fire escape ladder, skillful and experienced. She makes a quick decision and pursues the road to the right.

            He's stepped onto the grating, continues to climb the rickety metal steps to the next level. Sydney fires a warning shot, the traditional revolver in hand. The bullet misses, ricochets off a railing and drops to the eroded path below. He's moving faster with the smell of gunpowder as his impetus. She keeps her steady pace because it's obvious to both of them that he's running out of levels to climb. 

            She expects him to climb up the last flight of stairs but instead he leans out over the railing, swings one foot over, then the other. He crouches, balancing on the few inches of grating he's given, and pushes himself off the fire escape with a clothes wire as his safety line. Sydney curses beneath her breath and aims for the cord, changes her mind, and aims for his landing point instead. By the time he reaches the fire escape platform opposite her, the bullet is already moving and lodges itself into his shoulder. As he yells in pain, she fires again, knocks his leg out from beneath him. He's grappling for the railing but his hand is too slick with blood and Sydney watches as his body drops to the alley floor with a thud.

            She's running to his side to finish him off by no mental decision of her own. Her finger places itself on the trigger and she fires again and again until she riddles his chest with bullets and her only comfort is the click-click of the revolver, reminding her to reload the gun. She keeps her eyes on the blood as it pools around his body, can't bring herself to look at the face she saw before he fell four stories. Click-click. She continues to pull the trigger. Even as Vaughn's body grows cold and lifeless. Click-click.

            _Click click_. 

            _Knock. Knock._

            The knocking on the door urges Sydney back into the arms of the scent of wood and vanilla that clutches onto her. The bed beside her is empty, but not cold. He's left her, earlier than he usually does, but she can't blame him. He's got people to kill, partners to betray, so is the life of Julian Sark. 

            The rapping continues and Sydney brushes off her reverie worries. Just another dream to contribute to the appalling pile she has similar to it, the two years' worth of nightmarish visions. She climbs out of bed and pulls on her robe, knows that it's Weiss thudding at the door, performing his routine morning call to make sure she hasn't suffered a beating from the enemy or from a bottle of liquor. She notices the Armani suit, belt and boxers missing from the floor. It would make sense for Sark to get dressed before leaving, of course, though she could appreciate a souvenir from time to time.

            "Hey," Weiss says when she opens the door, his appearance just as unkempt as hers. "Headin' to work in a few."

            "All right, I'll catch up."

            "Mmkay."

            The conversation ends and Sydney closes the door on Weiss' retreating back. The atmosphere is already dismal and guilt begins to build on her shoulders. For a few brief minutes, her thoughts are of Vaughn, then of the crucial mistake of last night. She tries to reassure her insecurities and opens the cupboard, looking for the box of Lipton tea packets, the kind she's never drank before but keeps for certain reasons. She finds it, dumps out the contents, and counts up the packages. Four. The same as yesterday. 

            It's not that big of a deal. Her sanity relies on the thought for the rest of the morning, as she showers off the events of the evening, drives to work and walks into the debriefing to find one member missing. Then her mind switches gears and the guilt creeps away until it's needed again.

            Dixon begins talking but Sydney only catches brief clips of what he has to say.

            "Agent Michael Vaughn… missing… Lauren… also in danger..."

            Her father's acute glare scrutinizes her and she quickly breaks out of her trance. No need for Spydaddy to know about her intentionally secret worries and relations. She tunes in during the middle of the video footage from one of the many surveillance satellites of the CIA, watches as an ambulance hurtles under a bridge. And doesn't come out the other side.

            "It's—it's the oldest trick in the book," Marshall stutters in disbelief. Sydney glances towards him as the other members in the room do and gives him an obligatory smile, shows him that she thinks it's okay he spoke his mind. 

            "As of right now, we are assuming the Covenant is behind this, so we will approach this situation with extreme caution. We are also assuming that _if_ the Covenant is behind this, they will keep Agent Vaughn alive until a ransom is proposed. Marshall—I want you to analyze the footage, see if you can find anything worth looking at. We'll hold another debriefing once we gather enough information."

            Dixon concludes his speech, shuffles his papers, and tries to distract himself with other current affairs while the room slowly empties. Sydney's feet remain bolted to the floor, her hands suddenly like lead weights. Any second now, he'll dash into the room, excuse himself for his tardiness and the events of the past forty-eight hours will go unnoticed. She stares at the table, thinks hard of his silhouette before it was marred by his unperceived marriage, and fails to notice her father's stare.

_______________xxx

            "Sydney," he says, "we need to talk."

            She's mentally aching, can't see through the thick veil of drowsiness the five Tylenols have induced. Her father doesn't look approving, but he helps her to her feet and guides her towards the conference room. One step at a time, Jack's trying to help her get back on her bike. She's ten years old again, but no feelings of nostalgia make the bridge of her nose tingle with hoarded tears. Just memories of an experimental Project Christmas and a dead mother.    

            "Sydney."

            She hears her name again, turns to see Dixon standing in the corner of the room. He steps out of the shadows, reinstates his role as mysterious head figure and tries to soften his expression, just for Sydney, just for the unpleasant news he's about to tell her. 

            "Michael? Have they found him?" she immediately asks, prays to God that it's not that. Dixon and Jack exchange glances, realize the severity of her obsession.

            "No, Sydney, it's about your health. Your father and I have discussed this and we think that it is best that you take some time off—to cope with the—situation."

            She knows what that translates to, they can't bring themselves to tell her the truth.

            _Sydney, your addiction to this married man could fuck up everything. We enjoy your presence, but for now, keep it on the down-low._

They wait for a response, the father and teacher figure tilt towards her, their heads nearly colliding from the bottled up anticipation. 

            "Okay."

            She turns around and walks away, astonishes both mentors with her unfeigned acceptance. Jack doesn't question her decision, understands that it was more his choice than hers, but doesn't feel any guilt. 

            As she walks away, she bites her tongue, reminds herself that she's still in public and there's miles between her and her apartment. The taste of metallic liquid interrupts her thoughts.

            Miles between her and her apartment.

            Miles between her and her last asylum.   
  


_______________xxx

            Years of investigating with fruitless results and ironically, the accolade at the end of the proverbial rainbow reaches him before he can reach her. She's insistent on his return into her corporation, but he's learned to stray from the master that kicks him too much. Her words are poisonous, covered in thorns, but so attractive that he can't help but sample them. She scribbles out a location and time and leaves it taped to his front door. He returns from a successful bout of negotiating to find the steep cliff that looms in front of him. 

            _The café. Three hours._

            He realizes the severity of her proposition, understands that she wouldn't waste precious time keeping tabs on a candidate for lapdog. His breath is haggard as he walks into his apartment.

              

            "Good to see you decided to come," Irina says, gesturing towards the seat directly across from her. The night air is unpleasantly cold, reminds Sark of years long ago when he'd spent time contemplating his loyalty. She looks like Sydney, even smiles like her, but the two women are utterly different. Hours of bedside conversation allow Sark to confidently reveal Sydney's sheer detestation for her mother, but he only speaks of her secrets to himself. 

            "I imagine that you'd have given me no other choice," he replies as he takes his seat across from her. His body faces towards the street, only brief glances suggesting the target of his attention. He can't stare at her, can't even confront her, without thinking about Sydney.  

            "By now, you have probably guessed that the proposal I have for you is a little more serious than just an errand. It's a favor."

            Sark immediately quirks his eyebrow in interest. A favor. 

            "I know about you and Sydney," she says. Ah, that kind of favor. Her comment is followed by silence.

            "And I know that she's still attached to Michael Vaughn, although he's temporarily out of the picture."

            Sark wants to grimace, fire a bullet into his leg, anything to prevent his conscience from wandering into taped off territory. He nods briskly, avoids eye contact.

            "I'll give you time to consider joining back up with me again," she says, preparing to leave.

            "Wait—what about your proposition?" Sark quickly stands up, stalks her until they reach the curb and her chauffeur pulls the car to a stop before Irina.

            "Sark, telling you of my intentions will be meaningless if I am not guaranteed one hundred percent of your loyalty. As of right now, I can only remind you of your poignant attachments to _certain_ subjects. Sever these connections and I will contact you again."

            The car door slams shut and the tinted windows conceal Irina's silhouette from the public. Sark takes a step away from the curb as the car cuts into the steady stream of traffic and leaves her lingering offer in his palms.

_______________xxx

            Sydney deserts her possessions in the Land Rover clandestinely parked in the lot across from the tenement. Her footsteps resonate throughout the serenity of the disrupted lobby, then follows her as she steps into the empty elevator and rides up to his floor. 

Sark's door is locked, taped, and gilded shut with the guarantee that his pursuers remain kept at the front door. She has _the_ spare key that allows her entrance to the prohibited—the only spare key he has, he claims.

_______________xxx

After several months of furtively meeting at covert locations, the question of trust came into play. Their most recent encounter led them both into the inviting folds of an Italian bed and breakfast. Words were drowned in their wild bucking and foreplay that only they two could share. Hushed whispers from his lips trailed down the curve of her neck and found a shell of sanctuary upon her breast. 

_"Sydney," he harshly murmured as he reached his apex and collapsed beside her. She moved her fingers along her cheek, wanted to brush the few strands plastered by sweat to her forehead. His hand grabbed hers, kissed her fingertips, sent feelings of unlocked intimacy down her spine. His shaft which remained between her lips felt the tremors of her body. _

_"I have to go," she finally said, tried to pull away and unlace her legs from his. _

_"When is Vaughn expecting you back?" he mocked, a smirk played on his lips, but fire flickered in his eyes. The blue wave couldn't prevent the sudden sting of jealousy from peering out, revealing true intentions. _

_"The CIA is expecting me back on a flight to L.A. at eleven," she said, purposely dodging the trap carefully laid out before her. Vaughn had Lauren, a fact that Sark knew very well. His subliminal envy made her feel wanted. His hands roamed down her spine, pulled her closer and tested her patience. _

_"It's only seven," he reminded her, letting his length slip out. She rolled out of the bed, rushed to put on her clothes_

_"I have to get back to the hotel room before Michae—before they find out I'm not there," she reassured him. She swayed her body purposely, knew his watchful eyes were approving of his possession. _

_"When will our next meeting be? Rome? Madrid? Perhaps Berlin," he asked. She shook her head and avoided the predictable argument. Her hands searched beneath the bed for her pleated slacks. By the time she stood back up, he had slid off the covers and was searching in his coat pocket for something._

_She was slipping into her blouse when he finally displayed his find. A pair of her panties, lacy and red, the kind that he had admitted to having a fetish with. Her brow quirked and she took them from him on her way out, shoving it hastily into her purse._

_"I'll call you," she said as the door closed behind her. It took the pain of her nails severing the skin of her palms to prevent her lack of control at the sight of his unadorned body. The lock clicked shut as her feet dragged her down the hall. The click hurt. _

_The intimacy ceased as soon as their bodies left the bed. It was an adaptation they had both received after years of training in a field as dangerous as theirs. Trust was a foreign word to Sydney, and one that was easily tossed around with Sark. Her thoughts lingered on their unlikely relationship. As she found herself stepping into a cab, she prayed that his face wouldn't appear at the window. If it had, her reason would have disappeared just as quickly as her innocence had. _

_It wasn't until she opened her purse at her hotel room that she noticed the extra weight of her underwear. She found a key hastily shoved beneath the seams of the waistband and held it in her palm. Yes, to Sark, trust was easily thrown around.   
  
_

_______________xxx__

She enjoys the feel of the lush carpet beneath her sore feet and inhales the aroma of wood and vanilla before the turn of the key in the lock transports her back to his austere bedroom. 

            "Hello, Sydney," Sark says before depositing his coat onto the wall rack. She only leaves her shoes at the door when she's in demand of his immediate attention. His voice is monotone and as Sydney walks out of his bedroom, he does not look satisfied by her appearance. She tilts her head quizzically and approaches him.

            "Hello," she replies, helping him out of his suit jacket. He lifts his arms robotically, lets her strip him of the burdening material, and while she lays it across the arm of one of his couches, he walks into the bedroom by himself. Sydney quirks a brow in suspicion and traces his steps.

            "So what do you want?" he asks when she stands in the doorway. She's brushing imaginary lint from her sweater, a distractive tact that Sark has perfected. His brow rises at her refusal to make eye contact, his patience having already been stretched tightly for the evening.

            "I need to know where Lauren is."

            Her choice of conversation topic is not intended to insult Sark but he takes it offensively and silently curses her attachment to her imaginary figment. He exasperatingly rubs his shorn head and tilts his head up at the right angle to catch her brief glance.

            "Why does it hold any importance with you?" he inquires, slants his head back at a brash angle. Sydney gently pushes away from the doorframe, closes the distance between them in a number of steps.

"I'm no longer on active duty. My father suggested to Dixon that I take a _break_. What would you do in my position?" she shoots back. Her wavering voice inflicts a wound on her confidence and she finds herself retreating from her original intention. 

"Lauren might not have anything to do with this," he warns.

His comment stings, and reminds her that she had tried to leap over a canyon, believing it to be a fissure, when agreeing to their relationship. In some aspect, he stills loves Lauren as much as she loves Michael. 

"Why else would she call your apartment at one in the morning to tell you Michael's dead?" she asks, croaking out the last word. She's run through the possibilities thousands of times in her head but the one that remains the most obvious whimpers in the corner, intimidated by the shadow of a doubt. 

"If you're thinking that I had something to do with this," he tilts his head down, makes sure their eye contact is unshakeable. He can't finish the sentence with Sydney's faltering confidence screaming of its blatancy. 

"Where is she?" Sydney asks again, her voice stronger, aggressive. He's even more wounded by her inability to see the aftereffects of her own words.

"I don't know," he lies. His certainty is faked to a degree of belief, but Sydney refuses to depart from the subject.

"Where is she!" she nearly yells, this time. Sark realizes he's made a grave mistake by allowing her entrance into his life. His vulnerability lures him into an inescapable pit which continues to grow bigger with each comment Sydney throws in. 

"You're asking the wrong person," he says, lying again. "I'll see you later."

He finishes the conversation and the argument and perhaps finishes something more. She furrows her brow in her injured feminine way and backs out of the bedroom. He hears her slip on her coat and shoes, then walk out the door. She leaves behind the remnants of promise as well as a collection of other emotions, but she doesn't leave behind the spare key.

Sydney makes contact with the only other person in her life that could be apart of such a conspiracy. Her mother. After years of hiding from both her and society, her reputation remains infamous and her location, discreet. Only her daughter knows.

She walks into her mother's office unannounced, sees the various screens emitting images of the surveillance around the building. 

"So you were expecting me," she says with a hint of disgust. "As always."

Her mother places her fingers in a steeple fashion atop her desk, swivels her leather chair closer towards it. Manipulation and conniving flow from her pores as she stares at her daughter with the same eyes as that which she'd passed onto her. Brown hair and a lithe body along with a graceful but sturdy frame. Two women after one another's hearts. 

"Hello, Sydney. I suppose you're here to ask about Lauren's whereabouts," Irina predicts, her steady gaze never leaving Sydney's.

"Yes," she replies, refusing the seat before her. She folds her arms across her chest.

"Why do you think I would know?" her mother asks. 

Sydney wants to tell her mother that she believes her to be omniscient, but she refuses to allow her mother any satisfaction from their meeting.

"Just tell me where she is," she demands.

Her mother shakes her head, clucks her tongue in feigned disapproval.

"What would your father think if he could see you now? Wasting away your vacation on such unimportant things like this," Irina cajoles. 

"Don't you tell me about what my father would think," she warns. Their mother-daughter conversation always leads to a dead end. "Just tell me where the hell Lauren is."

There is a brief moment of silence as the two woman analyze each other. Irina finally leans back in her seat and shakes her head.

"I don't know, Sydney. I'm the wrong person to ask," Irina admits. Her daughter furrows her brow and suppresses the biting remark she has stored in mind. 

"I should've known better than to come to you for help," Sydney spits out before walking out of the office. 

Irina waits until she sees the figure of her daughter leave the premises. A faint longing briefly flickers alive, then vanishes. She turns her attention back to her previous client.

"You can come out now," she says, facing the side door. 

Sark steadily opens the door and walks out into her office. He takes a seat in the leather armchair before her desk and rests his chin on his bent fingers. 

"I'll do it," he says.

Her father leaves a message on her answering machine, claims to have car trouble, their signal that a family conference is in hand. Sydney waits at the harbor where Vaughn had first touched her hand and reassured her of her sanity. It's also the harbor where Sark had purposely crippled her for the enjoyment of dominating her as they rolled around on the sand below. In a city so big, she was running out of discreet locations.

"Sydney," her father says as he sidles up alongside her to enjoy the view of the frothing waves. "Your mother told me about yesterday."

Sydney keeps her lips sewed shut, quashes the childish belief that her parents are conspiring against her. She glances down at the waves, tries to remember the trail of blood she'd left as her body was possessed by Sark. The pain she expects the memory to bring does not greet her, to her surprise.

"I've asked Dixon to place you on active duty again," he continues, his negotiating earning himself a glance of approval from his daughter. "We've come across intel that a Russian scientist has been enlisted by the Covenant to rebuild Markovic's cloning machine. Griffarov Felzer."

Sydney stares at her father as his gaze fades away and loses focus. She's heard of the name before, an underground scientist whose intricate trading pattern leaves no clues behind for the CIA to trace. She may have even seen him, once or twice, while parading around Moscow and rattling bullets through the streets. He appears feeble and old, but his mind is constantly running, manipulating everything to his benefit. 

"We believe that Lauren Reed has agreed to be the first to undergo the cloning procedure," Jack says. "She's now listed as a fugitive for treason and because of her connections to the Covenant."

Sydney bites her lip to keep herself from boasting. 

"Monday morning, Dixon expects you to be at the debriefing. And Sydney—regardless of what Dixon says, bring her back alive. Do not let your emotions get the best of you," Jack says.

"That's easy for you to say," Sydney retorts, the first comment she's contributed to the conversation. She unknowingly brings back memories of Jack's vulnerabilities and the failed mission that released Irina from CIA custody. He looks sternly at her, the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he turns away. Sydney watches as he walks down the dock and disappears among the throng of tourists and vendors crowding the boardwalk.

_______________xxx

Sunday evening leaves Sydney contemplating what she'd do if she ever had the opportunity to hold the gun to Lauren's head. She nurses a bottle of beer and squints her eyes at Lauren's dossier's picture. 

"Not the way I'd prefer to become intoxicated, but it's one way, nonetheless," he says as he walks into her living room, his footsteps barely audible. Sydney doesn't bother to look up, already knows that Sark will be standing there when she turns, and slips the profile back into the folder. 

"I'm not drunk," she argues while setting the bottle on top of the dossier. She stands up and greets him unresponsively, declining his invitation to enter his grip. He stalks her as she walks into the kitchen, throwing his jacket across the couch as a sign that he plans on staying the evening. 

"Would you like to know how I prefer to become intoxicated?" he whispers as walks up behind her. His hands run down her sides, then to her waist and clutches her hips, pressing them back into his erection. She can feel it against her thigh and some part of her desperately craves his heightening libido, but she repudiates and firmly presses her palms against the kitchen counter.

"They've put me on active duty again—I have to wake up early tomorrow," she cautions before jabbing her elbow into his ribs. She hides the fact that she's lost trust in him.

He barely groans and continues to hunt her around the room. 

"You're still angry about the other day, aren't you?" he queries, reaching out to grab her hand before she can leave the kitchen. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that I'd make it up to you?"

Sydney turns around and viciously throws her hand across his face. It leaves a mark, a burning red against his skin, but he barely flinches and holds on tighter.

"Don't try to negotiate for sex, Sark," she spits out, tries to pull her hand away.

He twists it behind her back and pulls her against him again, inhales the scent of alcohol and her shampoo, and smirks.

"I don't need to negotiate for sex," he brazenly states while pulling away the collar of her sweater. He nips the flesh at the base of her neck and feels her pulse grow faster beneath the river of kisses he plants.

Sydney lurches forward and manages to slip her hand out of his rough grasp. She throws her body into a roundhouse kick and successfully lands a hit to his gut. He grimaces as he's knocked back into the kitchen wall, but finds himself grinning with nostalgia.

"You always like to start it off rough," he says. 

_______________xxx

She waited for her contact to arrive, an aging spasmodic woman from the east coast with intel meant specifically for Sydney and her quest to find her mother. The boardwalk was crowded, but the various docks that led away from the masses of tourists were often deserted or speckled with amorous couples. Sydney recalled the last time she had ever come here—with Vaughn, to talk about the mess that her double agent status had made out of her life. Now, she was miles away from that brief moment in her life. 

_She watched as the figure of a man began to approach her from the entrance to the dock. No, it wasn't Vaughn. Her hallucinations were getting the best of her. As he got closer, she could distinguish a minimal amount of features beneath the crescent moon's light. Short light hair, and bright colored eyes. He sauntered as he walked, kept his hands in his pockets. Perhaps he was here to tell her that her contact couldn't make it. _

_When he was several inches away, she realized the identity of the stranger. She couldn't fire, not with the throngs of people meters away and idling lovers as witnesses. Her first instinct was to run, find a more isolated location where she could released her fury in a series of punches and kicks._

_"Sydney," Sark said, dipping his head quickly. She reacted instinctively, delivering a kick to his stomach that sent him reeling several feet back. Then her legs carried her down the dock and into the swarm of people on the boardwalk, skillfully working her way around patrons._

_He was following her, she could tell by the string of profanities that tourists unleashed as they were knocked aside. She noticed an unattended flight of stairs that had been chained off—the ferry wasn't in service for the evening. As others looked away, she hurdled over the obstacle and rushed down the steps and onto the sliver of sand beneath the dock above. The lights of stores and lamps faded as she ran further away from the public and closer towards the shadows cast by the more vacant docks. _

_"Sydney!" he called out from behind her. She stopped running and pivoted, facing him with an irritable glare._

_"What the hell are you doing here, you sneaky son of a bitch!" she yelled back._

_"Looking for you," he said as he slowed to a stop in front of her. _

_"And now you're going to be sorry you found me," she hoarsely whispered, throwing herself against him and to the ground._

_He reacted forcefully, knocking her off of him, but she retorted by delivering a kick into his side. Before she could pull her leg away, he pulled out a switchblade and purposefully dug the tip into her upper leg. She gasped in pain and as she took a second to place pressure on the wound, Sark threw the switchblade into the crashing waters and picked her up off the ground. His cradling technique irked Sydney, who lashed out and managed to push him away from her. As she dropped onto the ground, her injured leg was unable to stand beneath her and she quickly leaned against one of the many wooden columns supporting the dock. _

_"Son of a bitch," she cursed again, watching Sark with hateful eyes. He briskly walked towards her, but before she could prepare her attack, he gestured towards her leg._

_"You won't get very far with that. I hadn't meant for the knife to have cut you that deep," he said. The innocence was commendable but his indifferent expression led Sydney to believe that it was a façade. But she let him advance towards her and rip off a slip of his white shirt to tie around her leg. A part of her wanted to thank him, but a bigger part of her refused to acknowledge the criminal who'd humiliated her with his underhanded tactics and feigned naivety._

_"What do you want?" she spit out when he didn't take the opportunity to kill her._

_"I want that street in France," he replied, suddenly pulling her hips towards his and fiercely planting a kiss on her lips. She turned her head, realized that she wouldn't get very far with her leg in such condition, but tried to get away from him anyways._

_"That was a mistake," she hissed as she pushed him away to hobble past._

_"You've thought about it, haven't you?" he said, her pace taking her farther and farther away. "I've seen you, touching your lips whenever you pick up a gun, waking up with my name on the edge of your tongue. The only reason I'm not forcing it on you is because I know you want it too."_

_Sydney glanced behind her, a bare second that motivated Sark to pursue her and stop her slow escape. She couldn't deny that her thoughts hadn't lingered on their rendezvous in France for weeks afterwards, but to give in to Sark was to give up her dignity. _

_"I want you Sydney—more then I've ever wanted anything," he stated when he caught up to her and clutched her shoulders._

_"So what happens you finally get me?" she sneered, slapping his hands off. "You're disgusting, Sark. Just stay away."_

_"I don't think I'd ever be able to 'get' you. Afterall—you've got Vaughn," he ridiculed her. The fact that Vaughn could never be with her had been biting at her nerves every time she'd gone into the office. The only time when she didn't think about Vaughn was when she thought about Sark. _

_She quirked a brow when she turned back to look at him. Then her hands were around her neck and his hands beneath her rear, hoisting her up to rest against one of the dock's columns. He set her down so he could assist her with the removal of her pants, and she did the same, with her fingers slipping beneath his jacket. They tossed the clothing items aside and Sark gently laid Sydney onto the sand. He slipped his hand beneath her panties and initiated a series of orgasmic engagements. _

_By the time he delivered his last thrust into her, they were both breathing heavily from fatigue. Sand had worked its way into various orifices and the distance that had been between them had dramatically shrunk._

_            He helped her up and they wordlessly put their clothes back on. With her head cradled against his collarbone, he led her back up the steps, away from the boardwalk and to his car. They ignited the fire again at his apartment and the next morning, Sydney was gone. _

_______________xxx__

Sydney doesn't want to reminisce with Sark, but she does any ways. The memory is the only one that gives her comfort at night when the pillow beside her doesn't respond. When the realization hits that Michael's managed to move on and she still resides in the past, her only savior is the touch that reminds her she's very much alive. She could use that touch—the day before her return to the CIA, where upon she'll pass by his deserted desk, and feel alone. She takes several steps towards him and runs her knuckles down his arm when she reaches him.

            "Have I ever told you how _I_ prefer to get intoxicated?" she asks, her stern expression a contrast with her coaxing words.

            "No, but I'd like to know," Sark replies as he slowly begins to dip his head down towards her. Sydney trails her knuckles further down, towards his abdomen, past his waist and to the bulge that sends shivers through both their bodies when she brushes against it.

            "Like this," she barely manages to whisper before she employs her lips against his and finds his touch against her back.

            He leads them both towards her bedroom, where he dexterously kicks open the door behind him and closes it when they walk past the threshold. 

            She unbuckles his belt and he steps out of the pants. They reverse roles and soon their garments are scattered across the floor and his full arousal is pressed against her thigh. Their faces pull apart for seconds as Sark hoists her up into his arms and places her on the bed. He lays down beside her, but her impatience drives him. He rests his body over hers, supports himself with his arms and gently positions the tip of his shaft at the lips to her entrance. He slips the tip in slowly, then pulls out.

            "I want this to last forever," she whispers against his ear as he bends down to place a kiss at the corner of her eye. He slows down until he's not moving anymore and glances down at her. His hesitance represents his inner conflict as he battles to say or not say something. He swallows the words down, and continues with his new routine. With each thrust, her body writhes with unleashed words of affection and cries of pleasure. Finally, he's within her, her folds clutching and unclutching, a purposeful exercise that Sydney's perfected for him.

            "Sydney," he raggedly whispers, before pulling out and plunging into her for the last time. She moans in synchronization with him, and he collapses alongside her, a drugged slumber falling over her eyes. She calls out his name, this time. Not Sark. Julian. He pulls her body to his, rests his head in her hair and waits until she's breathing slowly and deep in sleep.

            "I'm sorry," he says before slowly letting her go and stepping out of the bed.

_______________xxx

            The hotel's actions are temporarily ceased as Sydney and Weiss venture down the hall to Lauren's apartment. The small crew they've brought along ambles behind, awaiting the commands from the agents leading the venture. Sydney glances at the hotel's room number and nods her head to show her certainty. 

She hasn't talked to Sark in days, ever since she found herself alone again the morning after and drowned herself in a puddle of remorse. She's been too focused on their latest mission—finding Lauren and bringing her back, alive, to the CIA for interrogation. Intel about the rebuilding of Markovic's cloning device lets the CIA know that only days separate them between peace and another Francie debacle. 

Weiss gestures towards the expectant group dressed in black who hastily surround the room's door. She knocks once. Then twice. Then a furious third time. Weiss grabs her fist, pulls it down to her side and takes in a deep breath of air, indicating for her to do the same. He then turns towards the agent beside him, jerks his head towards the door twice, and pushes Sydney back. Moments later, the door is off its hinges and against the wall.

Sydney is the first to rush in with her semi-automatic pointing ahead of her. Her thoughtless actions are only obvious to Weiss, who warned her beforehand to allow the others to ensure the room was safe. He rushes in after her and the small troop follows.

"She's dead," Sydney snarls as she quickly spins around in her step. She nearly collides with Weiss who stands at the door to the bedroom. He sees the half naked body lying across the bed, a bullet delivered through the back of the head. Her blonde hair covers her face and the puddle of blood trickles off the mattress and to the carpeted floor. He's too masculine to cover his mouth and swallow the bile crawling up his throat. His expression of indifference is all he needs to get by. Sydney brushes past him and pushes aside the other field agents, angrily proceeds towards the door to the apartment.

"Syd!" Weiss calls after her before she can get into the elevator and report to the CIA of their target's status. She lets the doors slide open, then shut, without her in the mirrored booth, and steps back to allow Weiss a moment to state his argument. "Syd, what's the problem? She's dead—and apparently she's been dead for a while. No offense, but I thought that's what you wanted."

She wants to tell him about Sark and how its more then obvious that he did it. Only one man would be enough to lure Lauren to bed, then have the audacity to slaughter her. Her theory about their unrequited love for one another immediately disappears and a part of her heaves a sigh of relief. She watches Weiss' confused expression and says the most palpable excuse.

"How the hell do we find Michael, now?" she snaps back. Weiss takes in a deep breath of air and lets her retreat down the stairs.

Marshall's panicking voice forces the objective of the mission to flee in another direction. 

"Sydney—Sydney, we've just received intel that there was a contact for the Covenant in the building. They alerted the Covenant—they're performing the cloning procedure with another person," he stutters out through the phone. Sydney signals for Weiss to come towards her, half whispers and half mouths the urgent message Marshall has for them. Weiss leaves her in the hall to reform the crew and send them back to their assorted vehicles for the goose chase Marshall's about to send them on.

"Calm down—who else has signed up on such short notice?" she asks.

"See—that's just it. Nobody has willingly signed up," Marshall says slowly. 

"Michael," Sydney breathlessly replies as she runs to the apartment to tell Weiss.

The white unmarked vans haphazardly screech to a halt at the entrance to the warehouse. The large and ineffective building is the worst place to perform such a delicate operation, but Marshall insists that the location is correct. With only three exits, the blasphemy of the entire foundation leaves Sydney questioning Marshall's certainty.

Sydney throws open the back doors to the vehicle she arrived in and jumps down, following the line of field agents as they softly tread towards the back entrance. Weiss gestures with his thumb towards the front entry, lets her know that they'll intrude from several directions. 

"Syd—are you sure you wanna' be apart of this?" Weiss asks as the agents line up against the outer walls. She nods and realizes that the potential of losing another friend to the cloning procedure is highly plausible. Her finger itches to pull the trigger. She pats Weiss on the shoulder and walks back towards her cluster. 

They snake several optic tubes through the shattered windows several feet above, allowing Weiss surveillance of the entire building. His breath is haggard as he scans the inside of the facility.

"It's him—it's him! Syd, it's Vaughn!" he says, reaching the brink of an asthma attack. 

Sydney wants to enter the building but remembers Weiss' plan. His group would enter first, then hers. She hears the pattering of feet upon the cold cement through the thin walls. Moments later, the back entrance opens like a garage door and the field agents hurriedly burst into the warehouse, assembling themselves behind the piled up boxes and empty fragments of machines. Before Sydney can get past the group of agents, the sound of a bullet escaping from its chamber stops her.

"And Sark—Sark's there," Marshall continues after his lungs return. Sydney pulls the earpiece out of her ear, doesn't want to hear anymore, doesn't want to believe that Sark would take part in such an experiment. She could only think of one impetus strong enough to drive him to sacrificing his body to science. 

"Put down your weapons, put down your weapons!" Weiss says loudly, his voice the most prominent among the chorus of warnings that the other group members yell out. She hears the clattering of materials against the ground and finally pushes past the few people left standing in front of her.

Sydney walks into the circle of light, stands alongside Weiss, watches as the few scientists and security personnel fall to their knees and place their hands behind their heads. She turns her attention towards the two stretchers placed in the center, one with the body of Vaughn and the other with the body of Sark. The cloning device is wheeled away from the door where it had been carted after their blatant arrival along with its cowering creator, Griffarov. He pleads for mercy, promises that he'll reveal any information they need, but Weiss shuffles him along with the rest of his Covenant companions.

Sydney searches the rest of the warehouse with her eyes, realizes that no other bodies are lying dormant on the ground, and steps towards Vaughn's body. She knows where the gun was. She just needs to find the bullet. 

She presses her hand against his neck. A faint pulse, but a pulse nonetheless. His battered face is cold because of the brisk Russian weather and his body is littered with bruises and cuts. The only sign of his existence is his soft breathing and the rush of air that brushes against her hand when she lifts it across his lips.

With her chest collapsing against itself, she turns towards the parallel stretcher, her hand shaking as she runs her palm along the body's arm. No one else notices the way her heartbeat triples and her body teeters briefly. She slips her hand beneath his chin, fingers hesitantly stroking the skin.

No pulse.

In order to prove herself wrong, Sydney presses down harder on the throat, places both hands on top of the cooling flesh, searches for a pulse. The blood that soaks through his shirt and puddles around her elbows doesn't stop her frantic hunt for the brief flicker of life. 

"Syd!" Weiss calls out, leaving the rest of the agents to handcuff the employees. "If I'd known you'd hated him so much, I would've let you shoot him."

His voice is cheery, bouncy even. His worries are gone now that his hockey buddy has been safely returned to them. Sydney can't bring herself to let go, can't bring herself to stare at the man who so calmly boasts of his kill.  

"Why don't you sit in the ambulance with Mike—I'm sure he needs to see a friendly face," Weiss suggests, ushering her towards the medics that place his body on a different stretcher and wheel him away. He doesn't realize that her upper body is caked in blood and her legs quake with a lack of support.

"I can't—" she starts to mutter, but Weiss has already left her. She walks out of the warehouse, opts to meet Vaughn's body at the hospital, and walks outside towards the thin line of brush and trees around the facility. She leans over, pulls her hair behind her, and hurls into the bushes, a mixture of bile and dejection. Then her legs lose the ability to hold her up and she collapses to the ground, uncaring if her fingers mingle with her lunch.

Meanwhile, Sark's body is left for the later ambulance to retrieve. And inspected. And with no relatives to claim his body, it would be cremated. And eventually placed in a ziplock bag, labeled by his name, and locked away in a freezer. 

She inhales deeply and covers her mouth to smother the wracking sobs that shake her body. The figment of blood drips across her lips and she desperately tries to remember its taste before falling victim to desolation.

Author's note: Okay—Just to let you know, Sark is not dead. If it's not obvious what went on, then just wait until the next chapter, which I'll post up shortly because this story's just as fun to read as it is to write. It's a little confusing, but hopefully all the questions will be answered in the third—and last, chapter. But be ready because the next chapter might be just as long as this one was. Keep reading, hope y'all enjoy, and review. 


	3. Irony

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

Ersatz Liaison

Chapter 3________Irony

Don't you think we're all feeling crazed,  
In a world, where nothing's as it seems,  
Paved with broken dreams,

 I found truth.

-the Calling

Thank You

__________xxx

She wakes up from another dreamless sleep, her cheek pasted to her pillow with an adhesive composed of salty tears and unwashed skin. Her eyes are bloodshot to match the deep impressions along her arms—remnants of her refusal to take the easy way out. The cuts are mostly healed, almost to the point of having never existed, but the impulsion for her deliberate injuries surfaces occasionally. 

            She pulls the covers off the bed, tries to cover the new scar on her upper leg. In the heat of the moment, she'd tried to reform the gash he'd given her months ago, delirious and under the impression that time would go backwards for her. It's an inflamed red around the healing skin, another souvenir, another thing to be ashamed of.

            The packets of tea are missing, as are several items of clothing and pieces of furniture. Just a minor revamp of the apartment, intended to help eliminate the memories that still lingered. Even as she steps into the shower, she can't make herself forget.

            _Sydney stepped beyond the dimpled glass, welcoming the deluge of water. Her sore limbs and muscles ached as they worked the shampoo into a lather. The smell of lavender drifted through the bathroom as the mirror fogged up. _

_            She had her eyes closed as she washed out the shampoo, didn't notice the shower door as it slid back and received another occupant. _

_            "You smell lovely," he said, running his hands down her bare sides. She froze, at first, but recognized the accent and the gentle touch and allowed her guard to fall. _

_            "May I?" he asked, pressing his erection into the groove above her buttocks. Sydney pivoted on her foot, turned to look at him with a raised brow. She brushed her hand over his libido and breathed heavily. He immediately took the initiative and lifted her to him._

_            She wrapped her legs around him, tucked her feet in between his thighs, and felt his hands drop her on the small jut that held the bar of soap. He pushed the hair from her forehead, leaned down and quietly sucked the drops of water off her lips, then moved further down._

_            "You're beautiful, Sydney," he said through the patter of the shower. She stared directly at him, smirked and drew a line from the corner of his eye down to his collarbone._

_            "I bet that's what you tell all the ladies," she replied with a hint of a groan as he took her breast into his mouth. He pulled away, stood to his full height, and placed his hands at her hips._

_            "No. Just the beautiful ones," he said, bending down to kiss her again. They shared a laugh between puckered lips, and then he was inside her, thrusting and accommodating the speed to her moans. _

_            Her nails dug into his back, left bloody impressions, but the pleasure outnumbered the pain and he barely noticed. She arched her chest forward, tipped her head back as she reached her climax, uttered his name like an omen. He kissed her neck, thrust again and found himself pressing his hands against the shower walls for support. Sydney slipped off the soap receptacle and into his arms, rested her head against his collarbone. _

_            "A good way to wake you up in the mornings," he commented as he ran his palms from her shoulder blades to her rear. _

_            "Very good way," she said with a smile._

_            "So how about another round?" he asked._

_            "I'm already way ahead of you," she replied, pulling him towards her._

She lets the cold water wash away the smell of alcohol even though it no longer lingers on her skin. Neither does his blood, but she insistently rubs her skin raw, until it glows a bright red. She wants to remember his face, regrets their secrecy, which never allowed for an opportunity for a public appearance. No tokens of their relationship adorn her table at work—no keepsakes are stored in her apartment, and the spare key is missing. Her dreamless slumbers are as much punishment as the nightmarish visions of Vaughn's gruesome death. The onslaught of water sprays down on her, makes her forget whether the liquid that falls off her chin is of her own creation, or of the shower's. 

__________xxx

            The white washed hospital walls are bright, much brighter then her apartment's been for the past week. It makes her feel a level cleaner then she really feels, although the smell of rubbing alcohol and antibiotics is somewhat nauseating. The agents posted outside his room allow Sydney fifteen minutes to talk to Vaughn. 

She can see his chest slowly rising as she leans against the door's frame. She should be happy, excited even, but she's not. His presence satisfies some part of her—not the part that she wants to be fulfilled. Her confidence begins to falter, but the sound of a faint _click-click_ somewhere propels her towards his bed.

            She walks farther into the room, takes a seat in one of the nearby armchairs, and leans forward to examine his profile. The only observation she makes is how the spotted white hospital gown clashes with his black and blue skin. 

             "Michael?" she whispers, pulling the seat towards the bed. He rolls to the side, faces her, but his eyes stay closed. She places her hand on his cheek and grazes her thumb across the field of stubble across his chin. The succinct movement beneath his eye lids lets her know that he's slipping out of his slumber. She doesn't expect his hand to grab hold of her wrist and twist. 

            She stumbles out of her chair and tilts her body to coordinate with the forced movement of her arm. Her next breath is sharp, a short gasp that relieves some of the pain. 

            "Michael!" she hisses. The hold slackens and as his eyes compute the severity of his action, he drops her hand. 

            "Sydney," he whispers, his eyes suddenly wide with surprise. She rubs her palms nervously, then leans forward again. 

            "Yeah—it's me… How are you feeling?" 

            "Dizzy. A tad bit nauseous. Confused—What the hell am I doing here and what's going on?" 

            His voice is the same and the emotional influence on his tone just as it was before—but his dialogue is different. An inkling of doubt begins to conspire, but she blames it on the imaginary alcohol still floating through her blood. 

            "Calm down—you're fine. Just take a few deep breaths and calm down," Sydney suggests.

            "I've been calm for the last seventy-two hours—every time I tried to talk, I was injected with morphine," he argues. "Sydney—what's going on?"

            "You were in an accident—but now you're okay. Just, don't worry about it. Dixon and Weiss will tell you everything once we get you checked out."

            "And when will that be?"

            Sydney briefly makes eye contact, then studies the white tiles on the floor. Her hesitance is created by her insistence to separate his face from Sark's. When she turns to look at him again, her eyes are squinted, purposely blurring the image of the man before her. 

His body jerkily sits up, the wires and tubes attached to his body quivering with rigidity, nearly dragging the machines and the humming monitors from the bedside stand. He views her pause as a forewarning of dire news.

            "Sydney—when will that be?" he demands again. The bedside monitor briefly distracts Sydney. His heartbeat remains eerily ordinary without the briefest of fluctuations to compensate for his hasty movements. Her gaze flickers back towards Vaughn. His furrowed brow and wrinkled forehead reminds her of Sark. She's caught between a choke and a scream when she speaks again.

            "Michael! Lie down!" she nearly yells. "What's wrong with you? Calm down."

            He looks suspicious, but finally surrenders to the fatigue running through his veins and collapses back onto his pillow. His stare turns towards the speckled ceiling tiles above. 

            "They won't perform any tests, will they?" he asks, avoiding eye contact.

            "Well—other then the routine check-up to make sure you haven't contracted anything—no—no, they won't. Don't worry, you'll be out of here by tomorrow."

            "Good."

            His lack of interest in his life's current condition tugs at Sydney's conscience but she discards the observation. She'll have questions and answers for him later, but for the time being, his irking similarity to Sark pulls her to the brink of screaming her throat raw with confusion. She can only cordially pat Vaughn on the shoulder and head towards the door.

            "Sydney?" he says before her hand can reach the handle. "I just wanted to say that I love you. It's always been you, you know."

            Her head dips down as she prepares for the waterworks that should follow such a poignant moment—but his words have been overdone and no longer hold any significance. She turns towards him as she pulls the door open and smiles. A small smile that holds as much meaning as a customary greeting. She's got all the time left in the world—but no time for him.

__________xxx

             Sydney glances at the empty chair beside her father, where Lauren would normally sit. Her last memories of the NSC agent are of her limp body sprawled across the bed, her tousled hair wading in blood. Not the most flattering image of Lauren, she admits, but one that satisfies her. Beside her is Vaughn, already back at work, and as indifferent as he'd been at the hospital the week before. He's staring at Marshall, more of a scrutinizing stare than one of co-worker admiration, and is leaning back in his chair.

            _Vaughn rapped at her door twelve hours after their meeting at the hospital, next to an ecstatic Weiss. It was nearly midnight, but Sydney hadn't planned on going to sleep. She'd been at the brink of deciding how to best control her obsession with a corpse, with knives or with rope. _

_            "He's staying at my apartment because his is—well, a little messy," Weiss said covertly as Vaughn searched for a bathroom. "We just got back from the hospital and he just finished unpacking his stuff at my place. I was thinking that we could watch a hockey game together, or something. Y'know, just to make him feel comfortable when we tell him about Lauren."_

_            "Yeah, sounds good," Sydney nodded, pulling two bottles of beer from her refrigerator. "Eric—when I was talking to him at the hospital today, he didn't once ask about Lauren. You'd think he would, after going through all of that, wouldn't you?"_

_            Weiss took a long drink, then set the bottle on the counter, rotating it by its tinted neck. "Well, maybe he just didn't want to bring up the subject with you, because of all the chemistry you guys used to have."_

_            Sydney quirked a brow and scoffed._

_            "Yeah, and he said something else," she began to say. The sound of the toilet flushing and running water silenced her. Vaughn walked out of the bathroom, stopped moving when he saw Weiss and Sydney's blank expressions._

_            "What?" he asked._

_            Sydney glanced towards Weiss, then pursed her lips together as she thought up a worthy explanation._

_            "So I see you found the bathroom—I hope it wasn't too messy," she said with a smile._

_            "Yeah—your apartment's like Eric's," Vaughn said quickly._

_            Weiss nodded and shrugged. He gestured towards the couch and turned on the television when he neared. Sydney purposely sat down in the armchair, providing room for only her confidence and her sanity beside her._

_            "Mike—we gotta' talk about Lauren," Weiss said, bluntly introducing the topic into the conversation. Sydney wanted to smack herself in the forehead in order to make up for Weiss's lack of tact, but Vaughn seemed unmoved by his candidness. _

_            "What about her?" he asked._

_            "Well—I don't know how else to put this—but she's dead," Weiss said. Sydney held her breath and watched Vaughn's expression turn from indifference—to indifference._

_            "Hey—Mike? You there?" Weiss waved his hand in front of Vaughn's face, watched as his gaze followed the fingers as they wavered back and forth. _

_            "What am I supposed to say to that?" he asked, his eyes slightly narrowing as he dipped his head down to eye Weiss. "That I'm sorry for myself?"_

_            An awkward silence followed, filled in with the distant roar of ardent crowds jumping to their feet in celebration of a win. Neither Sydney nor Weiss moved to turn off the television or comfort the man who seemed calm enough to comfort himself. _

_            "Well, I'm not. I've just got to move on, all right?" he said, getting to his feet. Weiss stood up with him, placed his hand on Vaughn's shoulder._

_            "Okay, okay, just calm down, we'll go back to my place. You look like you could use some sleep," he said reassuringly. Vaughn glared at Weiss, slapped the hand away._

_            "I've been calm ever since I was fucking crated into that hospital room!" he yelled. "She's dead, I get it, let's move on, but I'm not dead, so can you stop treating me like a fucking kid because I get the picture!"_

_            Sydney gritted her teeth together and turned towards Weiss, avoiding any form of contact with Vaughn. _

_            "You guys—should go," she said, ushering them towards the door. Vaughn hesitated, but followed his companion into the hall. Weiss turned towards her before he headed to his neighboring apartment._

_            "It'll sink in later," he said, with a knowing nod._

_            "Yeah. Or maybe it already has," Sydney replied, pushing the door closed._

Sydney stares at the man beside her. Even before they met at the hospital, she'd realized that Vaughn hadn't been the one she was trying to keep beside her. But it's too late to change her mind—one of life's little ironies that she should've predicted before hand. 

            He turns to look at her for mere seconds, but enough to make her feel nostalgic. A different man from a different time. She glances at her watch and then towards her father, who for once, seems worried about other problems. The irking thought that perhaps for once, he might not be able to help her, leaves her feeling powerless.

__________xxx

             She's sitting on the toilet seat again, contemplating the touch of cold metal against her wrist. Blood is already leaking from the minor cut, but the blade's barely inserted itself into her skin. She tilts her head at an angle, grimaces as she forces herself to pull away and push at the same time. A knock on the door breaks her concentration and she gasps with the sudden rush of pain. She sets the razor on the sink and frantically searches for something to cover up the cut.

            She opens the door, matching wrist cuffs covering the hastily applied bandages hiding the incisions. They're white and striped with black, the ones that she wears when she jogs. 

            "Hey," her visitor says. "Can I come in?" 

            Sydney stares at Vaughn, then slowly steps aside and regretfully allows him entrance into her apartment. He brushes past her and sets his coat on the coat rack, as though he's already made himself at home. 

            "Want something to drink?" she asks, pouring herself a glass of water. He shakes his head and tucks his hands into his pockets. 

            "Sydney—I came to talk to you about, well, us," he says, taking a step toward her. "You've been avoiding me."

            She takes a long drink and sets the empty glass back down on the counter, tries to rest her weight against the edge. Her wrist quakes and she casually drops it to her side, not wanting to look dependent. Her hand drifts to her waist and she places it against her hip.

            "What makes you say that?" she asks, busying herself with counting the tiles on the kitchen floor. 

            Vaughn quirks his brow and grabs her hand before she can react. He pulls down the wrist band and reveals the gauze wrapped haphazardly around it. 

            "I found a razor in the trash. Beneath the bloody tissues. You clean up after yourself quite well," he says, letting her hand drop. "I would've brought it up earlier but—as I said before, you've been avoiding me."

She pulls her hand back, nurses her wrist affectionately and walks out of the kitchen.

            "So why are you doing it?" he asks, following her.

            "No offense, Michael, but I don't think you're the right person I could talk to about this," she replies, sitting down on the couch. She doesn't invite him to take a seat beside her, not yet.

            "Well, then who would be?" he inquires, slipping his hands out of his pockets.

            "Myself, maybe?" Sydney jokes in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

            He sits down beside her and leans back, tosses both arms along the couch's back and languidly rests.

            "Ah. Well, Sydney, first off, I'd talk to someone who knows how to properly wrap a cut," he says, moving his hand from behind her head to her side. He wraps his fingers gently around her upper arm and brings her wrist towards him. He unwraps her makeshift bandage, revealing the inflamed cut. 

            "You really don't have to," Sydney says, trying to pull her hand away. 

            "No, I insist," he replies. 

            She watches as he brings her wrist to his lips, gently runs his tongue across the slash. He moistens the score and sends shivers down Sydney's spine. 

She suddenly wants to taste his lips again, the flavor of metallic blood on her lips—but the dream is far from possible and as she realizes that it's Vaughn kissing her wrist and not Sark, the fantasy vanishes. She pulls her hand away and holds the quivering wrist to her chest. Her shoulders rise with a mixture of disbelief and disapproval.

            "Sydney, if it's not obvious, I love you," he says, leaning towards her.

            "I know. I heard you the first time you said it, at the hospital," she replies.

            "So what's the problem?" Vaughn asks, furrowing his brow in the way that he often does.

            Sydney's speechless. For a moment, he reminds her of the jock in high school would couldn't take no for an answer. This isn't the Vaughn she knows, but somehow, it has to be.

"What do you mean?" she asks, suppressing her shock.

            "Why are you avoiding me?" he asks again.

            She wants to roll her eyes but the obvious gesture of impatience would only ignite the fire that is slowly flickering. 

            "I don't know if it just didn't occur to you or if you're just stupid—I don't love you. And the fact that you're a completely different person doesn't help much either," Sydney says, her temper getting the best of her. 

His personality _is_ different, pushier, edgier, as though he's running out of time to live out the rest of his life. She shakes her head and stares at her wrist, still wet with the remnants of his touch. 

            "What are you talking about?" he asks.

            "I don't love you," she says again, her expression as indifferent as his was upon hearing news of his Lauren's death.

            "Well—what—what's wrong with me?"

            "Michael, you're not acting like yourself anymore. You're different. You were barely effected by Lauren's death, you treat all of your friends like enemies, you're persistent and you don't take no for an answer—"

            "Sydney—I can change—"

            "No, let me continue—you treat Marshall like he's some sort of crazy scientist who doesn't have a clue what he's doing—"

            "It's not like that—"

"Weiss always tells me about how you just don't care about hockey anymore—"

"Just trust me on this—if you knew the half of it, you'd understand. But listen—I can change—"

And I couldn't love you even if you could--"

            "I can change! Sydney, I can change," he insists. "Whatever's wrong with me, I'll change. I can't lose you now—after everything, after all that I've had to do."

Sydney clenches her teeth together to keep from mourning over his naivety. She shakes her head and furrows her brow in an effort to look serious and block the tears.

            "I was in love with somebody else, Michael," she says monotonously, hastily rewrapping her wound. 

            "Was—was—you were. Past tense, no longer present," he points out.

            "But not by any choice of mine," she whispers harshly. 

            There's a brief silence as Vaughn can only stare at her in some form of disbelief. Her words hold another, more direct meaning, something that she's hinting at him to guess. He stands up and places his hand to his forehead. He runs his fingers through his hair and tries to scratch his brain out through his scalp. 

            "Sark?" he demands. "You were in love with Sark!?"

            Her throat goes dry and the breath of air she takes in is enough to throttle her.

            "How the hell did you guess that?" she snarls, standing up to take a defensive position.

            "Considering that he fucking died right next to me and you were there to cry a river over it! I could hear you asking God to spare him, Sydney—but I hoped—I prayed, that it was not that," he yells.

            Vaughn slams his fist into the nearby wall and dents it, nearly breaks through the plaster.             

            "Michael! Stop it!" she yells.

            "He was a fugitive! He was—he was an enemy of the state! You were supposed to be hurting him—not fucking him! How—how could you love him?" he asks. 

            Sydney pulls her hand back and sends it reeling towards his face. She feels the after effect of the slap throughout her arm, even her palm burns with the force of the collision.

            "I couldn't love you because you had Lauren! She slept with him, did you know that? And you still loved her. That hurt, that you'd choose her over me. So I chose Sark over you, and I don't regret it," she says. 

            Vaughn stares at her as he briskly walks towards the door. 

            "You should've told me," he says before slamming it closed behind him.

            "Would it even have made a difference?" she screams, although it's pointless. The echoes of their argument console her as she lays down on the couch and nurtures her wrist.

__________xxx

            The lush carpet is soft beneath his feet as he treads through his deserted bedroom towards the armoire against the wall. 

            The thought of leaving his apartment unattended had occurred to him, but he'd opted to continue the payments and eventually figure out what to do with the problems of owner identification later. Some part of him had even believed that perhaps Sydney would have followed the path he'd laid out for her. But of course, something had gone wrong. And the entire operation had backfired.

            Irina seemed just as devastated as he was upon discovering that her daughter's interests did not lay with her former CIA handler. She was brief about the bad news, though. The machine had been taken into CIA custody, probably destroyed for the safety of the department, and with the Covenant's lack of faith in a stolen investment, there was no chance for the machine to be rebuilt. 

            _Just don't do anything stupid,_ Irina had said before hanging up. Not the slightest hint of an apology for the wrong turn her plan had taken.

            Sark glances at his face in the mirror, runs his hand down the hooked nose and defined jaw. Green eyes—not blue. Not the blue ones that Sydney had fallen in love with. He pulls out the revolver from behind his back and points it at his reflection.  

            One bullet—to remove one half of the mistake.

            He fires once, the mirror shatters and the pieces fall to the ground. Seven years of bad luck won't affect him, not where he's going.

            The revolver feels cold against his temple, but the touch of death isn't rumored for being warm and inviting. The taste of Sydney's blood still rests on his lips, but it's not enough of ambrosia to save him. 

Sydney, if only she could see him now. One of life's greatest ironies at its conclusion. 

He takes a deep breath, convinces himself that he's killing Vaughn and not Sark, and welcomes the bullet.

__________xxx

Another knock at her door.

Sydney stumbles from the kitchen table, pushes her reading glasses into her hair. She opens the door, half expecting to see Vaughn, but finds Weiss towering before her instead.

"He's gone," he says, breathless, his face red.

"What? Michael?" she asks, a sudden guilt formulating on her shoulders.

"Yeah—I just called his cell—he's not picking up," Weiss nervously replies.

"Okay, come back in five minutes, I'm going to get my purse and get on some clothes and we'll go try and look for him," she reassures him, closing the door as he nods and returns to his apartment. 

She walks towards the coffee table and picks up her purse. Before she turns away, she notices the key lodged beneath one of the coasters. She picks it up, holds it in her palm, and realizes that it's _the_ spare key. Sark's spare key, placed there by Vaughn.

Sydney pockets her find and runs towards the door, ignorant of whether Weiss follows her or not.

She finds his limp body halfway between the bedroom and the bathroom. It's Vaughn, but at the same time, it's Sark.

Sydney holds her hair back as she leans over and presses her lips to his cold ones, realizes that the taste of blood still lingers. Not his—hers. She's tasted it so many times that recognizing it is just second nature.

He was there the entire time, but in a twisted way, he wasn't. The decision had been entirely his, but had been brought on by her. So regrettably, she's holding the body of another man she'd loved, cold and unmoving, another con of doing what she did for a living.

She pulls back and gently picks up his head, cradles it in her lap. The blood seeps through her clothes and his cold skin touches her own. She pulls the revolver out of her hand and inspects the chamber. Still one cartridge left. 

The irony of the situation never seems to cease, and she finds her finger drawn to the trigger. No more Lauren, or Vaughn, or Sark—her existence remains entangled in the conspiracy that Sark involved himself in.

She has enough confidence to pull it off, the reminders are on her wrists and along her legs. The smell of wood and vanilla urges her to perform the deed faster. The neighboring tenants will eventually realize that the apartment next door is unlocked and the resident, dead. The list of reasons increases with each passing moment and the wound that grows each time she cradles the head of a dying man is bound to kill her any ways. 

She asks aloud for forgiveness from her father, and places the gun to her head.

Her finger begins to apply more and more pressure onto the trigger until finally, she's forgotten the taste of regret on her lips.

_Fin._

Author's Note: And that ends my first full length Sarkney fic. What drama! What romance! What angst! Blech, angst. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the fic.


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